


Big Hands, I Know You're the One

by Birdbitch



Category: DCU
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metropolis is on the news. Tim's brain goes nuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Hands, I Know You're the One

**Author's Note:**

> When does this take place? Jonathan Lane-Kent is around (though technically off world with Clark). NOWHERE was never a thing. Kon did die, but he's back now. Tim's coping with everything. Unbeta'd. Title is from the Violent Femmes song, "Blister in the Sun." (Which is, you know, about heroin, but who's counting?)

There are still mornings where Tim wakes up and doesn't remember that Kon’s back. A lot has happened; it's a forgivable offense (even though he’s the only one who’s, you know, offended). He gets out of bed and tries to feel for solid ground, the rug next to his bed because hardwood floors in Gotham apartments are cold. He makes his bed before anything else, haphazardly pulling the sheets and comforter back up to their place beneath the pillows. He walks to the small bathroom, washes his face with cold water and an anti-acne soap. Brushes his teeth. Climbs into the shower, thinks about his own scars, slides his hands over them as though to remind himself that his body is real and right where he left it. Sometimes, he lets the water scald him. Tim Drake uses Head & Shoulders because it's what his dad used to buy, and he hasn't bothered adjusting to anything else in the years since he started buying his own toiletries. When he gets out, he takes Wellbutrin, which only his doctor and Bruce knows he’s on (it's too embarrassing to even tell Kon about, to admit that he needs it) and rinses it down with water straight from the faucet. It’s 7AM, he is tired, he needs to stop working nights, and, when he finishes buttoning up his collared shirt, he remembers that Kon is alive again. 

The routine is the same every morning, even if the whole “Not remembering the return of his best friend” isn't something that's always an issue. Just like the anxiety that he has to take a separate, as-needed medication for isn't constant, neither is the unreliable brain thing. It's just enough for him to want to call Kon’s phone in a blind panic just to hear him, and to shut down that idea before it can get the better of him. He makes his own coffee, empties in an unenvironmentally conscious packet of sugar into it, and drinks it without stirring. He has two cups like this before he checks his briefcase for anything he needs, checks his Blackberry for any updates he might have missed, checks that the coffee maker is unplugged, and leaves. Tim lives and works in Downtown Gotham, says “Hello” to the doorman, Mark, and walks to work most mornings. There are appearances to keep up, and if gossip magazines like to mention that he’s fit, walking instead of relying on a driver helps give a reason for how he manages to stay in shape. (There's also the issues he has with food, that his doctor knows is not just him choosing to keep Kosher, but that they both have been avoiding a conversation about.)

He thinks that there are two major things getting in his way: one, that life has a history of taking things away from him, and two, that Kon technically isn't Superboy anymore. The second thing is probably for the better, since being alive again meant Kon could age again, so he’s roughly 23 years old, and being called a “boy” at this point is kind of embarrassing. It doesn't change the fact that Tim still is dealing with his own identity crisis, or that when he hears the name, he expects someone very different from Jonathan Lane Kent swooping in with an unhappy Damian in-tow. 

Tam brings him a bagel with salmon and cream cheese and watches to make sure he eats it under the guise of giving him a daily briefing. Something about needing to win a contract they’ve been competing with LexCorp over, about biomedical research funding, about the annual corporate function. If it were three years ago, that last part could have been fun--Tim used to love putting on an act, liked coming up with different characters--but he can't do it anymore. “When was the last time Bruce went to one of those?” he asks, licking cream cheese off his thumb.

“You know, I think it has been a while. I’ll talk with his people.” She makes a note of it on her tablet, scribbles something with the stylus. “I have a meeting at eleven, but if you want to grab lunch…”

“I get the feeling that's not a question.”

“You’re looking a little sallow. I'll bring a Caesar salad around noon.” Tam leaves to go manage marketing, and Tim thinks he should have gone to college, after all.

The anxiousness in his gut about forgetting Kon has him fidgeting all morning, through the negotiations and fund reallocating. By ten, it's bad enough that he has to run to the bathroom, let .5mg of Ativan dissolve under his tongue while he makes his way back to his office pretending he’s not freaking out about something bad happening to Kon. The news runs closed-captioned on a flat screen television outside the office and he can see it through the glass walls. Metropolis is under attack and Tim’s going to lose it. There's a text from Bruce, telling him to stay at work, and Tam comes in and distracts him with the salad and chai tea. 

“‘The Blur’ is the stupidest name for a superhero I’ve ever seen,” he says, and she looks at him, then the television and back.

“That's not really what they're calling him, is it?” Tam’s surprised, since when she met Kon, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d want brand recognition. Tim snorts, cuts up a piece of grilled chicken into pieces with the big leaves of lettuce. “Isn't this the same guy who had a PR team?”

It makes something else clench in Tim’s gut, and he sighs, staring at his mangled salad. “Yeah. It is.”

The rest of the day goes by with Tim intentionally avoiding the TV screen and wading through emails. Vicki Vale wants an interview, and he’ll do it if she lets him prescreen the questions. He takes more Ativan. Sometimes, he can take too much, and sometimes, he seeks out that loose-limbed feeling because his head feels too heavy and his heart beats too fast for him to stand being himself. Three o’clock rolls around and he passes by Tam’s office. “Not feeling great, heading home early.”

“Feel better,” she says, not prying. Metropolis is still under attack. The city has been evacuated. Some time for Clark to be off-planet, Tim thinks, and he wants to go help so badly, but there’s only so much someone who doesn't have physical superpowers can do. He’d be a liability, which is why he gets a phone call from Bruce double checking that he hasn't taken off towards the action. 

“It’s your night off,” Bruce reminds him. “Try to get some sleep.” Tuesdays and Thursdays, Tim isn't allowed to patrol. If he were still 16, he’d complain about it, but as it stands now, he gets it. This isn't because Bruce doesn't think he's capable, it's because he’s worried about him. Tim greets the doorman, takes the stairs back to his apartment. Since it's summer, he picked the seersucker suit, and he lets himself feel the texture of it when he slips the jacket off his shoulders. It hangs on the closet door when he falls onto bed, curls into the fetal position, and takes a nap. When he wakes up, it's dark and he panics, a sharp stabbing in his chest that takes his breath away. When he turns on the TV, the news is focused on...not Metropolis anymore. Tim runs to his window, throws it open, and calls out for Conner.

He lands on the fire escape looking a little worse for wear, but alive. “You called?” he says, grinning, and Tim, despite himself, pulls him in. “Tim, are you alright?” It’s an awkward hug, and Tim is most definitely not alright, but Kon’s hand is soothing in his hair and he doesn't care enough to be embarrassed.

“Metropolis,” Tim finally says, pulling himself together. “What was it?”

“A pain in my ass, because Brainiac always is, but--Tim, man. Your heart’s skyrocketing. You have to calm down, you're freaking me out.” He has a concerned look on his face that reminds Tim of Krypto, and he encourages Tim to sit down on his couch. “I’m fine, you know. I know I probably smell, but I'm--”

“I know,” Tim says. Kon’s shirt has a tear in it, and there's dried blood where there was a cut before the Kryptonian part of him must have remembered its survival instincts. “Um. Jon?”

“Clark took him with him. For a father-son bonding trip.” There's a little hardness in his face, but Tim doesn't press. “You look like you're the one who was fighting alien robots. Bad day?”

Tim frowns. “You’re right, you do stink.”

“You could always take a shower with me,” Kon says, waggling his eyebrows, and Tim laughs, covers his mouth and then reaches to hug Kon again. “That worried about me?”

“We don't have sound up on the TVs at work,” he answers. 

“I’m getting dirt all over your shirt.”

“I’ll have it dry cleaned.”

“Alright, Rich Guy, but you offered me your shower, and I’d be a real fucking moron to pass up hot water.” Kon disengages a little, looks at Tim. “You coming or not?”

Taking two showers in one day can dry out your skin, especially with the acne wash Tim uses. Besides, when he does shower at night, it's quick and cold and meant to get the grime of the city off him. He doesn't care. He follows Kon to the bathroom, strips down next to him and, for the millionth time, shows him how the nozzle works. “Tim,” Kon says into the skin of his shoulder, “You’re the best.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“The entire McDonald's menu.”

“Really, Kon?”

“Okay, okay. That local Chinese food you ordered last time.” He sighs while Tim scrubs his back and then turns his head, worried, when Tim presses his forehead to his spine. “Tim? Buddy? Need you to talk to me.”

“I can't,” Tim answers, and Kon turns around, crowds Tim against the tile wall. Rather than feeling claustrophobic, Tim feels safe. He’s hard, which doesn't always happen, but right now, he’s particularly vulnerable. “I just need--”

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” Kon answers, and the kiss is gentle, sweeps Tim away, and the shower spray stops when Kon reaches to turn it off with his TTK. “I’m here.”

It’s enough for now. They climb out of the shower and Kon borrows a bathrobe that’s way too small for him. Tim orders food, puts on a pair of sweatpants and a white tank top before watching Kon rummage through his DVD collection. “I didn’t know you had the Wendy the Werewolf Stalker collection,” he says, and Tim looks at him.

“I got it a while ago,” he says, and then realizes it must have been during the interim where Kon was still dead. “Can we watch something else?” 

“Huh? Oh, sure.” Kon goes back to searching, and Tim gets the door for the delivery man. It feels good being able to give a good tip, he thinks, and he carries the bag of food in and puts it on the coffee table. Kon rises up from where he was bent over the DVD player, and it’s surprising. Tim doesn’t know why--he knows what Kon looks like in clothing and out of it, figured what the short cut of the bathrobe would look like on his thighs. But. If Tim had been in Metropolis at all earlier, he’d have bruises even despite his armor. There would be an actual cut where Kon’s shirt had just been ripped, maybe a tension headache behind his eyes from clenching his teeth. 

Kon doesn’t have a scratch on him, not even when the robe falls open a little over his chest since it doesn’t fit. If Tim were a decent person, he’d tell Kon to grab the sweatpants that he left a few weeks ago, a shirt from the back of Tim’s closet when he had to wear loose clothing after recovering from a pair of broken ribs. Instead, he watches Kon, who looks like he should be in a figure drawing class, and nudges his knee when he sits down and spreads his legs to take up the majority of the couch. 

“You’re getting your balls all over the seat,” he says, and Kon looks at him and grins.

“Well, you know,” he says, and then he leans forward to tear into the bag of food. “What’d you get for yourself?”

“Chicken and broccoli. And white rice.”

He watches Kon eat more than he touches his own food, the movie playing on the television like a quiet distraction. This is easy. Kon even cleans up once he’s finished eating, offers to throw Tim’s food into his fridge. Tim declines, does it himself because there’s nothing else in the fridge, and he doesn’t want Kon to get the wrong idea. Superheroes have to eat, even if they don’t really like doing it. 

They go back to the living room. For a moment, Tim wonders if Lois Lane ever gets scared about Superman, if she has the time to be worried about him when so much of her own job leaves her in peril. Or, worse, if Lex Luthor ever gets worried, which is a line of thinking he really doesn’t want to pursue. Kon winds an arm around Tim’s shoulders and squeezes, and Tim leans into it, turns his head and says, “Why’d you pick the smallest article of clothing in my apartment?” to which Kon shrugs and says, “I thought it’d look good on me.”

When he helps Tim out of his clothes, Tim  _ does _ have bruises. This isn’t like the shower together, which ultimately served a purpose--and Kon has to take care to avoid them. This one is from Killer Croc. This one is from Solomon Grundy. This one is from falling into a dumpster because he was tired and getting careless. He could have called for Kon when it happened, but he’s glad he didn’t. “Bed?” Kon asks, and Tim nods. This is his best friend, and he’s had feelings for him for years, and he’s so mad that he never acted on them before Kon died, because what if he had never come back? He focuses on the physical, tries to get his heart to stop racing, but if it’s going so fast, maybe Kon will assume it has to do with the fact that he’s pressing against him, panting, verging on begging. He gets wrapped up in the TTK like a protective forcefield. 

“I’m tired of worrying that you’re going to get killed,” he says, finally, out of breath, sticky and warm and comforted by Kon’s weight pressing down on him. 

“I mean. I don’t plan on dying again. Didn’t like it the first time.” 

“You not wanting to die doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” 

“How do you think I feel when I’m all the way in Kansas and you’re jumping off rooftops?” Kon asks, voice quiet. Tim doesn’t respond. “Like, I keep an ear out for you, you know? And I’m dealing with weird crop monsters and secret government facilities because Kansas is so fucking weird, but I hear you shout and I have to remind myself that you can take care of yourself, you know?”

“I know.” He turns, presses against Kon again. 

“I know you know. And we know how to take care of ourselves.”

That’s debatable, Tim thinks, visualizing the fact that Tam has to make him eat breakfast and lunch, and his own tendency to working himself to the bone, but he knows what Kon means. 

In the morning, he wakes up, and he knows that Kon is still there.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr as Sailorbirdie. Come say hi.


End file.
